Last Minute
by Lovely Zelda
Summary: Nothing ruins a night of drinking like realizing you have half an hour to summarize a century.


**Disclaimer**: I don't own Crowley, Aziraphale, or the Spice Girls. The Ketchup Song is one of my guilty pleasures though.  
**Rating**: PG-13. Language, attempted office supply violence, and there's probably some slash in there somewhere.   
**Other**: This was written because I thought that procrastinating by writing about procrastination would be much more satisfying than actually writing my poetry paper. And as you probably guessed from that last sentence, the paper was utter crap. So I'm hoping that this fic doesn't suck, because that'll make it all worthwhile. Or at least as worthwhile as failing poetry because I decided to write fan fic can be.  
  


Whoever was in charge of the pub's music had decided to end the monotony of Spice Girls and Kylie with the Ketchup Song. Aziraphale winced at the assault of what he would have called be-bop and said, "I turned in my report this morning, and I'm a bit worried." Sighing, he pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief and started wiping wine off himself. "Really, dear, I think that was a bit much…"

"Report?" Crowley asked.

"I assume you haven't even started then. I've been telling you for years that it would be much easier if you didn't leave it until the last minute…"

"Yes, Mother," Crowley sneered.

"Don't take that tone with me."

Crowley decided he should just be grateful that Aziraphale hadn't called him "young man."

"You know what they say," the angel continued. "Idle hands are the…er…"

Crowley leaned forward. "What is it they say again?"

"Well, you know…"

"Oh, do tell me."

Aziraphale flushed. "Perhaps you'd better get started, dear."

Several sheets of paper and a fresh drink appeared in front of Crowley. "Give me your hand."

"Why?"

"I've got to write it in saints' blood, and you're the closest thing I've got." Aziraphale held out a pen. Crowley took it and removed the cap. "All right, this might sting a bit…"

Aziraphale caught his wrist before he could find out what it was like to be stabbed in the neck with your own writing implement. "I meant for you to write with it," he said.

"What?"

"It's red."

"I think they can tell the difference between saints' blood and ink."

"Use your own blood then." Aziraphale let go, mostly because people were giving them strange looks.

Crowley scowled and started writing.

"They didn't say anything about your last report, did they?" asked Aziraphale.

"No."

"Then I don't think they really care what you write in." Crowley's report on the 19th century had been written with a stack of old newspapers and suggestions from Aziraphale. Most of Crowley's centennial reports had been written in a similar style or worse. The first draft of his report on the 14th century had read "Everything because this is the worst fucking century in the history of existence. See attached form for request to transfer to Malebolge 4." He'd only changed it after Aziraphale had reminded him that there were no pubs in Hell.

"Time?" asked Crowley.

"About half past."

"Ten?"

"Eleven."

"Shit." Crowley hastily wrote another few lines and passed the page across the table. "All right, read if over."

"'1900 to present: racism.'" Aziraphale sighed. "You can't be serious."

"I haven't put a stop to it, have I?" asked Crowley. 

Aziraphale decided to let it go. The rest seemed to be things Crowley had actually done. "Some of this is in English," he said.

"So?"

"I can't believe they let you write in English," the angel said with what might have been a trace of envy. "I still have to do mine in Latin." There was a terrified silence from the other side of the table. "Crowley?"

"Fuck!"

"People are starting to stare."

"Quick, give it back." A bottle of white-out appeared on the table.

"You have to write in blood, but you can use white-out?"

"I'll say it's something else."

Aziraphale's nose wrinkled. "That's disgusting."

"I don't know what you're implying, angel, but I'll be happy to take suggestions. Why haven't our people figured out that Latin is a dead language?"

"Our people?"

"Mine and yours, I mean." Crowley started writing again. "I never liked Latin. Too bloody complicated."

Aziraphale decided that now was not the time to point out that they could understand any human language or that English had been dragged kicking and screaming into having grammar and spelling. "It's the language of learned individuals," he said.

"It's 'learned,' not 'learn-_ed_,' you pretentious bastard."

"Do you want my help or not?"

"Don't be like that," Crowley said. "You know you're enjoying this."

"Enjoying what?" asked Aziraphale, sounding slightly guilty.

"Playing language police."

Aziraphale had refused to admit to that for centuries and wasn't about to start now. "Maybe if you sobered up a bit…" he said as he took the report.

"Then I might be worried."

"This is interesting."

"What? If it's the 'fought enemy, emerged victorious' bits, I don't have time for a thesaurus."

Over the years "fought enemy, emerged victorious" and variations had been liberally sprinkled throughout the demon and the angel's reports. Roughly translated it almost always meant "Got drunk, had stupid argument about marine life/religion" except when it meant "Fed ducks, bitched about job."  Heaven and Hell probably didn't compare notes because so far no one had asked how they had both managed to emerge victorious, return triumphant, or come galumphing back.

"No, this," said Aziraphale. "'Twice tried to tempt angel, was thwarted.'"

"What would you have put?"

"Er...for which instance?"

"Either."

"I believe the first was 'Encountered demon. Wily serpent lunged at me, kept fiend at bay for fortnight.'" He neglected to mention the smiley face he'd placed at the end of the sentence.

"'Wily serpent?' I thought we agreed that I got to be crafty."

"Well..."

"I _liked_ crafty. Or even devious."

"I already used crafty for the 18th century."

"Oh, sorry, I'd forgotten how your people feel about reusing adjectives. Perhaps I should change 'angel' to 'dictionary shagging bastard.'"

"I was going to suggest that you put down thrice," Aziraphale said coldly. "But if you're going to get into one of your moods..."

"I am not in 'one of my moods,'" Crowley snapped. "And what do you mean thrice?"

"It's like twice, but for three."

"Yeah, I know. But I think I would've remembered...Oh. You think it's pretty much done then?"

"Yes. Just sign it."

"What should I sign it?"

"You know very well what your name is."

Crowley grinned. "Which one?"

"I'm not saying it."

"Twice then."

Aziraphale smiled. "I'm afraid not, dear. I said thrice in my report, and you know I can't lie." Crowley started laughing. "Well, if they catch me lying..."

"If they catch you lying about that, you're completely screwed. Just say it."

"I should never have let you watch _Quills_."

"I've never been sure why you watched it in the first place."

Arizaphale was suddenly very interested in the floor. "It's _art_."

"Would you just say it?"

Aziraphale said it. "Spell it," Crowley hissed. There was something about hearing and watching the angel say his real name that always got to him.

"P-R-A-T."

"Fair enough. My place or yours?"

"Oh, I hate having to clean up. There's nothing wrong with here."

"It's a public place. And I think they should've closed by now—"

"I'm sure the staff will be given handsome bonuses."

"And you're supposed to be the one with morals. Do you…er…need a minute?"

"No, I needed something to do while you were writing."

"Ah. I was wondering why you kept kicking me."

"I wasn't kicking you, I was—"

"Oh, I've figured that out _now_." Grinning, the crafty or possibly devious serpent pushed the table's contents onto the floor and lunged.


End file.
